In a Jam
by 0equilibrium0
Summary: In which John is short and injured and Sherlock is tall and mystifying.


I don't own anything.

..

The criminal—John couldn't remember his name, Dave, David, _Donald_, that was it!—pulled up short at the end of the wharf, the toes of one foot pushing over the edge. He turned, drawing a pistol from under his jacket as he did so. "Back off! Don't think I don't know how to use this!" His voice was shaking but his aim wasn't, the muzzle pointing steadily at John's chest.

"Calm down, we can talk this out." John slowed to a walk, then stopped. He was exhausted from the chase but too pumped with adrenaline to notice. _Damnit Sherlock, where the hell are you?_

"You're just trying to stall for time until the Yard gets here!" Donald waved the gun as he spoke.

That wasn't the case; no one at Scotland Yard knew of John's little adventure, but Donald would never believe that.

"If they see you pointing a gun at me, they'll shoot you," John lied. Donald was an American and with any luck he didn't know that London's police didn't carry guns.

Donald hesitated for barely a moment. "Not if I shoot you before they get here."

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion: the muscles in Donald's arm tensing as he began to pull the trigger, John diving to the right, the _crack_ of the pistol firing, the fire in John's right arm (some detached part of his brain laughing, because now both his arms were bad), the cold wood of the pier slamming into his side and suddenly it was all back at normal speed. John cradled his arm, too busy not passing out to have time to check the extent of the injury. Donald was gone—the gun sat, smoking, where he had stood—but his footsteps were still audible.

John made a deliberate effort to slow his breathing and calm himself down. Steeling his nerve, he bent his head to examine his arm. It wasn't as bad as it might have been, all things considered. The wound was raw and bleeding, of course, but there wasn't any bone visible, and he didn't seem to be bleeding to death.

The quiet _purr_ of a finely-tuned engine reached John's ears. He looked up and had to laugh (even if it was a bit hysterical) when he saw a familiar black car pull up.

_Thank God for Mycroft!_

,,

The fact that John had been in the hospital hadn't changed Sherlock's deplorable cleaning habits. John smiled. When had a messy flat become a neat-freak's home? He picked his way around stacks of books and papers and priceless artifacts as he made his way to the kitchen, wanting nothing more than a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.

He fumbled clumsily with his left hand. His right arm was in a sling; the injury wouldn't leave any permanent damage as long as he was careful with it while it healed.

Sherlock had already made a pot of coffee, so all John had to do was pour some without spilling too much of it. He accomplished the near-Herculean feat and moved on to the toast. Getting a slice of bread into the toaster was easy enough, as was getting it back out. The problem arose when he decided he wanted jam on it.

There wasn't any, at least not in the fridge. John sighed and moved the head so he could look behind it. No jam. He returned the cranium to its previous position and continued searching. After several fruitless minutes he realized where it would be. In the cupboard. Over the stove. He sighed.

John was short. It was a simple fact that he had learned to accept early in life. However, he wasn't short enough that it posed a major problem. Usually. Because usually, John's right arm wasn't immobilized.

The cupboard loomed over him, like some monster out of a child's nightmare. He reached for it carefully with his left hand. He felt his shoulder twinge slightly, but not enough to deter him. He opened the door. The jam sat just out of reach, clearly mocking him. His arm refused to lift any higher. He huffed and let it drop by his side. He heard the quiet padding of bare feet approaching him and wondered how long Sherlock had been watching.

The footsteps stopped. John could feel at his back what little body heat Sherlock produced; they were almost touching. Silently, Sherlock reached over John's head. His long fingers curled around the jam jar and deposited it in John's hand.

"Thanks," John muttered, embarrassed.

Sherlock shuffled his feet, then cleared his throat like he was going to say something, but didn't. Finally, in one quick, fluid motion, he bent his head and pressed his lips to John's cheek for the briefest of seconds. He then promptly exited the room at what was almost a run, leaving John to stare after him.

John realized he was smiling. He looked down at the jam jar and felt his smile widen into a grin.


End file.
